


Something Rhymes

by LaShaRa



Series: Snapshots [7]
Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV), The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: First Meetings, M/M, Rap Battles, Rescue
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-28
Updated: 2017-04-28
Packaged: 2018-10-24 23:45:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10752258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaShaRa/pseuds/LaShaRa
Summary: Mick hasn't heard a lot of rap- he's not the kind of guy who listens to music at all, really-but he knows this guy is something special. He's going so fast Mick's surprised he hasn't bitten his tongue off yet, but what surprises him more is how put together it is. The words shooting out of his mouth don't just rhyme, they follow patterns, they link back to each other and branch off again, they collapse and expand, like the bitchiest blueprint in the world come to life, or the heartbeats of hellfire.





	Something Rhymes

As far as rendezvous points go, an underground rap battle on the edge of Central isn't exactly Mick's first choice, but then he isn't the one calling the shots. Yes, the five hundred strong crowd is good and the fact that exactly all of them are skirting the edge of the law is even better, but there's just so much noise. The wave of yelling and booing reaches a crescendo as twenty guys surge on stage to drag off the guy who's just lost the latest battle. Not that Mick blames them; he may not know much, but he sure as hell knows when something just ain't rhyming.

Someone bumps into him, hard. It's his contact. Mick follows him to where a group of men are standing on the edge of the crowd . The boss is already talking, but Mick doesn't bother catching up; the roar of the crowd is still at crescendo level, and the enclosed space of the underground car park just makes it echo even harder. He's not going to hear shit. It doesn't matter; being the dumb muscle means he'll never have any orders that need explaining anyway.

He punches whoever the boss points at and he shoots whoever the boss punches before they punch back, and in the end he sets everything on fire. Sure wasn't what his mother hoped he'd end up doing- but his mother died when he burned down his childhood home with her still sleeping in it. So that's that. That stint in juvie after the fourteenth failed foster home put paid to any chance he had at a normal education or job, so here he is, punching people out for a living. 

It's not all that bad, except for when he gets stuck at crappy meetings like this that are going to turn him deaf on top of everything else.

Out of sheer boredom, he glances at the stage. There's a new guy up there, facing off against the guy who just won. He's covered in black from head to toe, which sets him apart from most of the shirtless, sweating crowd, and what can be seen of his profile is pale and angular. If the other guy's hand gestures are anything to go by, he's getting a strip torn off him, but that pale jaw stays smooth as stone. That's probably not going to last long. Mick's just about to get back to pretend-listening when the guy raises his mic and turns to the crowd and Mick forgets everything. 

The guy's fucking gorgeous.

Miraculously, there's nothing wrong with Mick's eyes, despite all the clouds of smoke he's sat through while watching a fire burn in an otherwise pitch dark building. So even at this distance, with this crappy fluorescent lighting, he's sure that he's never seen a pair of eyes that sharp, whatever their color. The guy's got cheekbones that could cut glass, and if that won't do it, his widow's peak probably would. His mouth, as it starts to move above the mic, spitting out words that Mick can't hear, is the prettiest thing Mick's seen since the twenty storey fire that landed him in juvie; almost as pretty as the one that swallowed up his mother and her old guitar and her near childish dreams. And just like the fire, Mick can't not get closer. He glances at the crew, none of whom have looked at him since he got here, then begins weaving his way through the crowd. They're packed thicker than a stash of coke in a cop car, but there was a time when Mick picked pockets to stay alive and that requires the same skillset. The closer he gets, the more the noise stops being one babbling wave and starts breaking up into recognizable pieces. He catches individual yells, insults, propositions- apparently he's not the only one who thinks this guy's pretty- but rising above it all, getting louder the deeper he moves, is the rapper's voice.

Mick hasn't heard a lot of rap- he's not the kind of guy who listens to music at all, really-but he knows this guy is something special. He's going so fast Mick's surprised he hasn't bitten his tongue off yet, but what surprises him more is how put together it is. The words shooting out of his mouth don't just rhyme, they follow patterns, they link back to each other and branch off again, they collapse and expand, like the bitchiest blueprint in the world come to life, or the heartbeats of hellfire. And if that wasn't enough, the words make sense. Forget talking about the hottest lay ever, or how hard it is to get discovered. This guy's mouthing off to everyone from Central City politicians, mob bosses, cops - not that there's much difference- to the crew boss who (allegedly) planned an (alleged) hit so shoddy that this guy walked out on him on the grounds that he wouldn't be able to justify taking part in such a hit on the Judgement Day on the grounds that he had a little more professional self respect than that. And he’s still managing to keep his Central City slums drawl intact and – more importantly, in Mick’s opinion – intelligible, while he does it. 

Also, the kid has a fucking unbelievable arsenal of puns.

Mick's about twenty meters from the stage now, and grinning like he hasn't in months - the kid's fucking funny, even if he's a little too fond of the puns - but he can hear the crowd around him pretty clearly too, and it's obvious they don't share his opinion. Mixed in with the guys yelling a variety of homophobic, xenophobic, anti-Semitic slurs are guys whose hands are playing with the poorly hidden knives in their belts, guys with patterned scars, guys with dark tattoos. So the mobs are listening after all. Mick wonders if the kid's icy eyes can see just what the hell he's gotten himself into and then he wonders why the fuck he cares.

A hand clamps down on his shoulder. "Where the fuck were you?" snarls his contact.

Mick doesn't look at him, but lets his mouth go a little slack and stares with wide, glassy eyes towards the stage. It's a con he's pulled time and again and of course the guy falls for it, staring at the stage for a moment before his lips curve up in a lewd grin . "You know what, no need to explain. I wouldn't mind getting a little closer to that sweet piece myself. - although looks like we both got beat to the punch."

Mick's confused for a bit before he spots the mob guys from earlier shouldering their way to where the kid is rocking on his feet a little as he flips the bird to some particularly drunk assholes trying to rap back at him from the front row.

"So you'll be at the meet on Sunday, yeah?" says his contact, mellowed out at the thought of impending violence.

Mick grunts, not bothering to ask when and where. The mob guys are on the stage now; the kid finally catches sight of them, but it’s too late. They haul him offstage; there’s an explosion of enthusiasm and insults from the crowd, which turns into howls of agony as the kid kicks the mic in a final fuck you, releasing a blast of painful sound that echoes around the car park. Mick, however, doesn’t duck instinctively like the others, which is why he’s able to see the mob guys yank the kid through a door in the side of the wall.

Because Mick is a fucking idiot, he follows. 

He’s almost too late. The flight of filthy stairs behind the door leads up to ground level and spits him out into an abandoned lot in a maze of other abandoned lots. Because it’s summer, there’s still a lot of light, more than enough to see that the kid’s good as dead. There are eight guys and they’ve got the kid backed up against a mesh fence, taking turns to whale hell out of him. Even as Mick watches, skulking in the doorway, the kid takes a punch that sends him flying backwards into the fence; the guy who threw the punch follows, his hands closing around that slender throat, eyes glinting with anticipation. The kid’s a mess, and his mouth is mincemeat, but that doesn’t stop him hawking a glob that’s more blood than spit right into the face of the guy strangling him.

The guy pulls out a knife, and Mick charges.

Mick’s not the finest of fighters, but what he lacks in finesse he makes up for in sheer brute strength. It's why all the crews try to keep him from each other: sometimes, brute strength is all you really need. He runs into the guy with the knife so hard that he's knocked clean off his feet. Mick doesn't waste time dealing with him, spinning instead to meet the fists that are flying his way. And then he's lost in a whirlwind of hammering fists and flashing blades which he ducks and deflects while trying to do as much damage as he can. It's eight on one. It's suicide.

For some twisted reason, it's glorious. It's almost as good as the fire. Mick's having such a good time just seeing how many fingers and faces he can break before the pain in his side and his head and his left knee lay him out on the ground that he only registers the click of the gun after it's already been pressed to his head. "You bastard," snarls the guy in charge, who's still on his feet only because he'd let his now unconscious minions take the brunt of Mick's attack. "I'm going to enjoy killing you," he continues, in a voice so hoarse with smoke that Mick would make a "did you know lung cancer is the number one killer in the world " comment if he wasn't afraid of getting his balls blown off. Although from the looks of it that might happen anyway. "You're going to regret the day you ever thought some punk kid was worth saving-"

There's a literal explosion of blood and grey matter; the guy crumples instantly, half his head blown off. The kid is standing behind him, holding the gun he must have picked off one of the others. What Mick can see of his face that isn't as covered in splatter as Mick's is wrinkled in disgust. "I do so hate using these," he drawls. "Bitch to clean."

"Sure I can find some way to make it up to you," says Mick, before his brain catches up with his mouth.

The kid looks at him like he's crazy. "Why the fuck would you do that? You just saved my life." 

Yeah, he did, and while that's usually not something he does, this would be the part where he decides what he wants in return. That's just how his world works. But in the low evening light he can see that the kid, even with a face that could double for roadkill, bruises bubbling over every visible inch of his skin, and one leg hanging a little wrong,is still one of the most beautiful things Mick has ever seen. Not in a redemption sort of way; with his jacket torn wide open, those tight boots reaching up to his knees and his bruised peach mouth, he looks like sin.

He looks like fire.

Instead of saying that and sounding like a crazy (crazier?) person, he says, "Maybe we should get out of here. These guys can't be the only ones who didn't agree with what you were saying and I'm not too popular either."

The kid tilts his head. "We?"

A sick, miserable feeling floods Mick's gut - how much more stupid can he be? - and he looks away for a second, trying to keep the emotions off his face. He's usually better at this crap. When he looks up, though, there's a look on the kid's face that Mick just cannot figure out. Although, if he had to guess, he'd say it was - relieved?

But then it's gone and the kid is slipping the gun in the waistband of his jeans, along with about seven wallets Mick didn't notice him collecting. "Guess we better move then. You don't look so good."

"Oh, I don't look so good? This coming from the guy who looks like the lead in a zombie flick ?"

The kid grins, sharp and dangerous and irresistible, leading the way through the deserted maze of lots like he's memorized it - which, if his batshit crazy lyrics are anything to go by, he probably has. Mick follows. "What's your name, kid?"

"Well, underground they call me Cold," says the kid, before turning and appraising Mick. His face is turning interesting colours, not much better than Mick's fists. "But I guess you can call me Len. Len Snart."

"Mick Rory."

"So, Mick Rory," says Len and sweet Lord his drawl makes Mick's name sound like sin too. "You don't strike me as the kind of guy to sacrifice himself on the altar of music - however deserved - so tell me. Why'd you come after me back there?"

Len turns to him and his eyes catch the light glinting off a chain link fence. They're blue, Mick notices at last - a burning, lethal, subzero blue. Mick lies, because he can't tell the truth. 

"I liked your puns. Wanted to see if you'd got any more."

When Len smiles, fire ignites behind Mick's eyes, and he has to tune Len's drawl out for a bit as they keep walking. That's okay though. Mick doesn't know how he knows this, but he knows there'll be time to tell him the truth later. Because Mick knows when something rhymes the right way. He knows when something's about to burn, and damn if he isn't going to stay right here and watch it go up in flames.


End file.
